Friday, February 26, 2010

The darkness thrummed softly in my ear, radiating a pressure in my sinus cavity that grew exponentially until I realized it was just the blood pounding in my brain, furiously pumped there by my heart because I let my thoughts stray to him.

Stupid thoughts. Sometimes I wish I was more like a Zen master who can control their thoughts and emotions, or simply take down the person that haunts my mind with a swift roundhouse kick to the head.

Or maybe that’s Chuck Norris. I get confused sometimes.

A horn blew in the distance, the deep cry of the freight train which tells people to get the hell out of the way because they are too big to stop for just anyone. Hancock, obviously, or Superman, but that’s about it. It’s said the sound of a train’s horn is the saddest sound in the world, but what’s sad about telling people to get out of the way?

Not to mention the train has only been in common usage since the 1800s, so what was the most mournful sound before that? I want to know who came up with the Mournful Scale, anyway. The sound of my bank’s ATM beeping at me while it displays ‘Your account is insufficient to support this transaction’ is pretty damn mournful to me.

So is the sound my phone makes when he doesn’t call.

Headlights danced across my ceiling as a car sped by, and I wondered where it was that they needed to get to in such a hurry. Maybe someone was waiting for them. Maybe they were late for work.

Maybe their crack-head ho was giving birth prematurely to a drug addicted baby in the backseat and they were trying to get to the river fast enough to dump them in it before there was blood all over the plum leather interior.

I pulled my pillow closer and buried my face in it, pretending it smelled like him. His head had never rested there, and I’ve no idea what he smells like, but I’ve got a pretty good imagination. I’ve decided that he smells like trees and the ocean and those little cinnamon bits that cover the top of a canned Pillsbury roll.

Sometimes he smells like fingernail polish remover, but that could actually be my hand beneath the pillow. I don’t think he paints his nails.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

I've been at it forever, and I just finished my samarai slashing of my manuscript. It was over 150,000 words, but I tossed a subplot. That took it down to 127,306. I'm happy to report that I've slashed it another 11,624 words. It's urban fantasy so it's longer than average. But ALL the foam is gone and the only thing to go now would be entire scenes if an agent wants it smaller.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

The above image is mine, as are the below words. This is one called We Are.

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The clock on the mantle ticks away the time, and at eleven minutes after the darkest hour of the day begins, you realize we are coming for you. It’s been a long time since last we saw your pretty face lingering around the back alley of the abandoned pool hall.

It’s not so bad. You’ll see things our way, eventually. If you know what’s good for you. Some don’t care what’s best for them, which is why we come for them in the first place. If you’re anything like them, you won’t last a baker’s dozen of hours before we break you. Do you really want to be just like everyone else? We thought you reveled in your individuality.

We are not happy with you right now. In truth, we are never happy with anyone at any time. It’s the nature of the beast. Happiness is the keyhole in which weakness slithers into the strong.

There is no key to happiness. You’ve looked, haven’t you? You wonder why there is even a hole, if there is no key to fit it.

It is there for the same reason we are. To make you question, to make you doubt, to make you wonder why the fuck you wandered down a back alley behind the abandoned pool hall in that little red dress, if not to prove you don’t care what’s good for you.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

So, here's another one. The above picture is mine, as are the following words. I call these short stories, but that's not really what they are. I was working on a project once which was a collection of ranting journals. Nothing ever came of it, so I'll just post them on my blog for a while. Here's Bitter Hands.

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I’m locking my door and shutting you out. The last thing I need is another person to spread my wounds wide and see how much I can bleed, or twist my insides until my guts squeeze my heart to burst. I won’t let you gnaw upon my suffering or allow your triangle-shaped words to strip away the soft flesh of my defenses.

Seriously, we have politicians for that.

You push me, pull me, toss my grinning nightmares onto the stage to perform for your own amusement. I’m so tired of you grabbing my sanity by the hair and driving it to the ground with your unforgiving apathy.

These bitter hands are washing themselves of you, but no soap seems to clear away the bile between my fingers. Suck it up. Move on. Split my self-righteousness in half and give it out to the poor. The world could use more complacency, and I’m sick of trying to keep a hold of my own.

Probably because I don’t deserve it, anyway.

So sit back and stretch out your wings to soak in all the heat radiating off my words. Take to the sky with my angry exhales, and tumble back to earth. You’ve dug yourself a hole to land in, and I’ll happily etch your tombstone.

Monday, February 22, 2010

I've decided to post some of my really short stories here. These are usually first person musings of someone not 'all there' if you know what I mean. This one is called A Typical Morning. I'd appreciate any feedback or comments.

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I awoke to the sound of a car speeding by on my residential street. This happens more often now that the questionable element moved into the neighborhood a few months ago. I wasn’t ready to wake up and sincerely thought that it was the height of rudeness for that person to be so obnoxiously loud and inconsiderate of those who had not been up all night partying like imbeciles as they probably had.

And then I realized I was an old lady and felt a brief wave of depression.

The sun’s rays slithered across my floor and crawled into bed with me. I rolled away from it and pulled the covers over my head. I don’t like to share my bed with anyone, dammit, especially not some giant ball of gas. If I wanted hot gas in my bed, I’d go back to my ex-boyfriend. At least with him out of my life it is now safe for my nostril hairs when I put my head under the covers.

Eight legs scurried above me. I don’t know how I knew that I was being watched, but when I peeked my eyes out over the hem of my comforter, the first thing I spotted was a hunter on my ceiling. Coarse fur lined his spindly legs and venom dripped from his mandibles as he watched me with hungry eyes. I’m assuming, of course. He was far too small for me to see him clearly, but I suppose that was what he was doing.

I mean, if I were a spider, I’d eat me. I’m all plump and squishy, and my carcass would probably last for days from all the preservatives floating around in my slowly congealing blood.

Though many might have looked for a shoe or an obliging can of hair spray, I chose to let it live when I rose from my bed and readied myself for the day. Just one small way for me to show my benevolence, and maybe rack up some points on my karma card. This had nothing to do with my being too lazy to bother and too attention challenged to remember there was a dangerous creature lurking in my lair. *insert nervous cough here*

I took my karma coated body into the shower, but luckily none of that gets washed away with soap. I’d have to do bad things for that to happen, as I believe. So, daily I make a point to be good to others, pay my bills, spend too much money to help with the recession, drive too fast to make sure I’m not in anyone’s way, let old people in front of me at the grocery queue so they check out faster and don’t do their Darth Vader impressions at my elbow, and mock people behind their back to make others laugh while not hurting their feelings.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

To any newcomers, be warned: these 'cute' stories usually contain either bad language or remarks about sexuality, uttered from the mouths of babes. Today's anecdote is again me and my eagerness to explain things as a child. Some of you surely recall the 'fuck' incident.

Today's contains a term that I never use now, as many of my friends are homosexual. At the age of eight, however, I had no such luxury or insight into the lifestyle. I apologize in advance if the words below offend. You can stop reading now and save your precious eyes.

Let me set the scene:

My family had recently moved from Texas to a mountain top in Colorado. I am not being colorful here. We lived off an old dirt road in the middle of nowhere. Denver was about 45 minutes away up a twisty highway that ran through Black Hawk. When I was a kid, it was still a tourist trap town with gold panning and burrow rides being the boon of the economy. Now it's full of casinos and beggars.

But I digress.

This twisty highway had little in the way of scenery as there was a rock face to one side and a river on the other, and once you've lived in mountains for a while, they all start to look the same. My sister and I sat in the backseat of our two-tone brown Ford Escort, my father drove, and my mother silently smoked and brooded(her favorite way to spend her time).

Quite randomly, my sister of nine asks, "Mommy, what's the difference between a fag and a faggot?"

Neither parent spoke. I, in my old soul wisdom, decided it was because they did not know. Always on the lookout for a chance to showcase my superior intellect, I chimed in with, "Oh! I know!"

"Yeah?" my dad asked, looking at me over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"A fag is a boy, and a faggette is a girl," I stated quite matter-of-factly. "Like Smurfs and Smurfette and cigars and cigarettes. Right?"

Again neither parent spoke for a long moment, then my father said, "Yup."

I, of course, beamed at my own awesomeness. No one had to TELL me anything because I, in my spectaculousness, was able to deduce the answer myself with my keen powers of observation.

Okay, guys. That's story four. Don't any of you have moments like this? Or was my childhood really as warped as I suspect it was?

Saturday, February 20, 2010

As promised, it is time for another tale about children's mouths run amok. This time, I proudly present my youngest's most memorable embarrassing moment -for me.

We lived in a small town in rural Illinois, but this is no excuse for what happened. I am a white woman, I have many friends of color, but at the time -when my daughter was 4- her education about the varieties of the human race were limited to what she saw on television.

A habit she had for a long while was to ask people if she could go home with them. Friends that visited, people in the gas station, police officers that pulled me over for speeding... yeah, anyone was fair game, and each episode highly embarrassing. I was positive each person asked to save my child from her boring home thought that I beat her with spatulas and tied her up in the basement.

One deceptively beautiful day, I took this attention-starved child to the grocery store. Like any good mother, I let her ride in the cart **to keep track of her** because she LOVED it. I was minding my own business in the cereal aisle, wondering why I could never find chocolate Malt-O-Meal anymore, when my child says quite loudly to the man passing by, "Are you black?"

Yes. Yes, he was. He was also giving me a look like I was the wife of the Grand Dragon of the KKK. In my defense (and hers) our community had very few people of color, so she had never encountered someone of a different race, except on the television, as I mentioned.

I gave him an apologetic smile then said to my blonde haired, blue eyed, pale as clouds daughter, "Yes, honey. Don't pester him. He's trying to shop." Telling my child to be quiet is like telling Brando to put the ice cream down.

"Can I go home with you?" Ah, yes. Her most favorite question was asked, and again the wave of awkwardness puddled around my feet. "Honey, I said to leave him alone. I'm sorry, sir." I tried. He gave me a dirty look. He started to walk away. My child, to really drive home the point that I deserved the Shittiest Mother of the Year Award, started to cry and said, "You scared him off. I wanted to go home with him. He's BLACK!"

In the middle of a grocery store. Remember that, parents of lil tikes, the next time your child starts to act up in a store, a restaurant, a theater... they could just start screaming things that REALLY embarrass you, so drag their asses out to the car.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Weirdly, I got two awards today. My head is swelling all kinds of big at the attention. Either that, or everyone ran out of other people to give them to. So, what are these awards you ask? Ah, lemme give you a gander. First up is the Picasso Award. This came from Roxy at http://roxyhaynie.blogspot.com/

My seven random things:1. I hate repetition.2. I hate repetition.3. Dragons rock. I've got too many.4. Grumpy Bear could totally kick Grumpy Dwarf's ass. Okay, that's an opinion, not a fact, but you'll get over it.5. I've never seen Casablanca or Gone With the Wind.6. Diet Dr Pepper is my lifeblood (right after Chex Mix)7. I dig guys with long hair. Preferably black or white. Sepheroth is a hottie.

My other award is from Mia at http://literaryjamandtoast.blogspot.com/

This is to list 10 things that brighten my day.

1. Comments.2. Awards.3. Anything else that makes me feel important and loved and worshipped and adored and doted on and special and terrific and magnificent and fabulous and wonderful and beige. Especially beige.4. Chocolate.5. Pink Floyd. 6. Old ladies falling down. Okay, no. I made that up. Maybe.7. The scent of freshly fried onion rings.8. My cat doing something stupid. This occurs daily.9. Offers from agents. Still waiting on that one, actually.10. Any opportunity to harrass/pester/annoy/embarrass my children.

I'll have to get back to you on who I pass them on to. I've given out a lot and I don't want to repeat myself or miss anyone. IN FACT!!! If I've not given you one and you'd LIKE one, let me know. I think you're all fabulous and you ALL deserve awards. The thing is, a lot of you already have these OR I just gave you a different one. Life is hard. Too many decisions. So much thinking...

So, read my fun facts. Smile. Mock me. It's fun.

Okay, Creative writing is going to:

Terry Towery at http://awriterofwrongs.blogspot.com/Lucy Woodhull at http://yousayweird.blogspot.com/John Paul at http://skymeetsground.blogspot.com/

I tried three times and the stupid link-alator wouldn't work, sorry. I got pissed and gave up.

I got two more awards today. Instead of posting new and filling up people's inboxes with more stuff about fabulous me, I'm just going to add my awards to this post from yesterday. I got this from Shelley at http://storiesintheordinary.blogspot.com/

The next award is this one given by Tiffany at http://tiffanyneal.blogspot.com/

I'm supposed to list 5 outrageous lies and 2 truths.

1. My children are really daughters of Poseidon.2. I'm a born again virgin.3. I have three mothers.4. Life is like a box of chocolates.5. Typhoid Mary was my great, great grandmother.6. I don't own a Bible.7. I don't have a middle name.

So, yesterday's romp into my sordid past seemed to be a moderate success. I'm pleased I could make everyone laugh at my stupidity. That's not sarcasm. I love making people laugh. Yesterday, Pen Name Pauline Thomas asked if my kids ever did the same sort of thing, and I can think of two separate instances in public where my girls made me want to crawl in a hole to escape shame.

Eldest daughter. Let me set the scene:

We lived in a small burg outside of St. Louis. At the time, my girls were 8 and 4. I had divorced my husband for several reasons I won't go into. This is supposed to be funny. St. Louis has an amazing zoo, and it's free, so I took my girls there a few times a year. One summer, the zoo was all abuzz over the new baby giraffe, so I packed up the girls and we headed over.

The day was warm and beautiful, and we were having a great time (as I've mentioned before, I love to embarrass my girls in public, so I was having a really great time), and eventually we made it over to the giraffe exhibit.

The baby giraffe was standing with its mother to the left side of the fence. The father giraffe was on the far right, leaning against the wall under the shade of a large tree. My eight year old says, "The baby is so cute. I wonder if that's its daddy." I corrected her and said that the giraffe on the right was the father, and the baby was standing with its mother. "How do you know that one's the daddy?"

Now, being eight years old, I did not want to school her on the differences of anatomy between a male and a female. The couple standing next to us was looking at the giraffes, too, and the man gave me a quizzical look, probably wondering what I was going to say. In order to simplify the situation, I tried to go with, "I just know."

This was not good enough for my eight year old. She kept looking back and forth between the giraffes, frowning as she thought about it. After a moment, she stated emphatically, "Ooooh. It's 'cause he's just standing around not doing nothing, huh?"

The man next to us smiled knowingly. I returned a nervous one. I could just imagine that he thought I was the sort of woman who just sat around man-bashing all day or something similar, but I swear, I wasn't like that (at the time). I looked down at my daughter and said, "Um...yeah. Let's go."

I led my girls away, and the man next to us burst out laughing. I could hear him ask his partner, "did you hear what that little girl just said?"

Well, this got a bit long, so I'm not going to go into my youngest's most memorable public embarrassing moment right now. Maybe tomorrow or later today I'll get it posted, too. I hope this at least made you smile.

PS: I'm aware of all the adverbs and adjectives, but don't care today.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Have you ever felt like you were not explaining yourself well enough, so took that extra, over-the-top bit of umph to really get your point across and then wished you had kept your mouth shut? I learned at a very young age to stop myself from doing this. Let me explain:

My father had a best friend since childhood who had two daughters appx the same age as my sister and me. They travelled from Kansas to Texas one summer to visit when I was nine. My sister was ten, the other two girls were nine and eleven.

My sister and the eldest of the two usually picked on me and the other nine year old. They would taunt us and say things that weren't very nice, or just beat us up. One night, while in my room, the four of us got into a VERY heated discussion that attracted the attention of the adults who then called us into the living room.

The four of us dutifully answered the call, and I was the one volunteered to explain what all the commotion was about. "Chelle and Julie are saying that Chris and I are girlfriends." **Crickets.** "They said that we sleep together." **again the parents say nothing, but look sort of amused.**

At that point, I was sure that all four adults were complete idiots. How could they not understand how totally violated I was to have my sexuality questioned at the tender age of nine? So, in effort to make them fully understand the depth of my horror, I puffed out my chest and said, "They said that we... you know... FUCK."

I did not see the other three girls take several steps away behind me, but my dad likens it often to the parting of the Red Sea. My mother looked furious. My father and his best friend burst out laughing. His best friend's wife told us all to go back downstairs and leave each other alone.

So, in short, I did not get my ass whooped, but I can tell you that is the memory that always pops into my head whenever I think someone is not getting my point. Now, instead of continuing on, I just assume they are an idiot and keep my mouth shut so I don't sound like one.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

As some of you know, I've had surgery recently. Two of them, in fact, back to back. One in November, and then (due to complications) a second, more awful one. I've been off from work since November 10th. I went three weeks without any pay until my disability started paying 80% of my wages. Christmas for me and my girls sucked. I won't go into my financial difficulties, but rest assured: they suck. Like... can't afford Chex Mix suck (my lifeblood).

My girls have taken it in stride, although the odd complaint now and again makes me feel like a failure as a mother. I am still home from work, and though I've used this time to try to find an agent and feel productive, I still feel like a failure. My youngest is turning 13 in two weeks, and I can't afford to throw her a nice birthday to commemorate her entrance into the awesomeness it is to be a woman.

Said child did something amazing this morning. I was still in bed (as I don't get around too good most days) and I heard her as she sang to herself while making a bowl of cereal, then dragged the trash can to the curb (a day late. She thought it was Tuesday), then heard her outside with her friends while they waited for the bus. A few minutes later she came running back into the house, then left again, then came back inside.

I called to her to ask what she was doing. She came into my room and said, "Ashley was selling band candy. I went and got my last two dollars so I could get you some. I put it on your desk." I argued that she needed that money for lunch money, and I didn't need any chocolate. She said, "School lunch is $2.75. We don't have that. I made a sandwich. Chocolate makes you feel better, anyway." Then she ran back outside before I could reply, hollering through the (very thin walls) that she loved me.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

I'm starting to feel like this is some conspiracy to make me say really horrible things about myself. Miss Emily White http://steppingintofantasy.blogspot.com/ has bestowed the 'Sugar Doll' blogger award upon me. This is something no one would dare call me in real life. So, things about me:

1. I used to eat dirt when I was little.

2. I go to midnight book handouts/premiers of Harry Potter. In costume. I'm in my thirties. My daughters were very embarrassed of me.

3. If, at any moment, at any time, in a public place I can get away with it, I'll act like an idiot if I know my daughters will scream, "Oh my god, Mom. Knock it off!"

4. I wanted to be Stevie Nicks when I grew up.

5. My parents bought my first ever album when I was 9. It was Cyndi Lauper's 'She's so Unusual.' They said it reminded them of me.

6. I've been in love with Keifer Sutherland since I was 12. That's more than two decades, people. It was the movie 'Stand By Me.' I always love the jerk. This is immulated in real life.

7. I was in KEY Club, Math Club, and Track in school. I also spent my lunch time smoking with the stoners (cigarettes) across the street. I've never cared about cliques.

8. I've moved many times. I keep losing count. I tried using my fingers, but now I'll just list them: Arlington to Wichita to Ft Worth to Arlington to Joshua to Nederland to Salida to Grand Junction to Clifton to Palisade to Wichita to Wichita to Palisade to Aurora to Palisade to Clifton to Clifton to Bunker Hill to Whitney to Roxana to Alton to E. Alton to Whitney to Whitney to Waco. Towns listed twice were because I moved to a new house in the same town. I hate packing.

9. I'm allergic to gravity.

10. Anything that is not corn, green beans, peas, potatoes, celery, onions, lettuce, carrots, tomatos, green peppers, or cucumbers is an 'exotic' vegetable. Do not attempt to feed me anything in the veggies pyramid that is not one of these things. No exceptions.

PS: I also have a suspicion that blogger is broken. My image and link are garbled. I might have to fix post-post.

Am I the only one who has a problem with this? Sometimes it feels like it. I've seen this brought up a lot lately, that writers compare their work to others in an effort to give an agent an idea of the tone of book or style. I can see the merit in it, but my problem is that I have nothing to compare mine to.

It's not so mind blowingly original that it's never been done before, I'm sure, it's just that... I can't find anything. Yes, some might go 'Well, that's good. It means the market's not flooded with that sort of thing.' But the catch might also be that there is a REASON the market's not flooded with it. What if it's not marketable? I've got a stack of rejections that support that suspicion.

The closest thing I can find in regards to tone is "Eyes of the Dragon" by Stephen King, but there's no WAY I'm comparing myself to King in a query. That sounds so pompous. But it's in that same omnicient storyteller tone that he used for that one, which is the only similarity. As far as storyline...I got nothing.

I mean, if I wanted to sound crazy, I could go, "It's The Butterfly Effect meets Dune meets Underworld only the vampires and werewolves are ugly and on the same side against gods, elves, satyrs, and fairies, and they duke it out in Potterverse College in Atlantis with scarier creatures and no wands." How's that for comparison? Kind of makes you go "WTF?" doesn't it?

Monday, February 15, 2010

So, as I was commenting on a blog today, I typed in the captcha to post it, and once again... it was ALMOST a word. Maybe I'm the only one amused by this, but let me share a true story. My current manuscript is fantasy. I have created a world with all new creatures and people to name with... yanno... standard funky names. In order to avoid stepping on anyone's toes, I would go to Google and randomly type in letters until NOTHING came up. I wanted all new, never before seen words.

Following my train of thought yet regarding captchas? I now realize that THESE are what I should have used all along. I should have just gone and commented all over the place and jotted down the captchas. I think I might do that for my next book. Or MAYBE write a book ABOUT captchas and how they hide in the ethernet and randomly yell out their own names, and when someone types it, they're FREE! Sort of the bells and fairies thing.

Right. Lame.

Anyway, it seems like a silly little idea, so I'll probably do it. I'm all about the silly.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

I was quite surprised today to get a special Valentine from a co-blogger, Mr Writer of Wrongs himself, Terry Towery. True, he's a swell fella and always ready with a kind word, but I was honestly shocked to see I rated as one of his favorite blogs. Truly, I'm just rambling to myself with the occasional fleeting thought of 'oh, people might see this *EDIT EDIT EDIT*' I find Terry to be highly intelligent and destined for success. If you haven't seen his blog, go check him out at: Terry Towery http://awriterofwrongs.blogspot.com/

Now I pass this on to five people. This is really hard for me, so don't take it like the Dodge Ball picking nightmare that junior high inflicted on us. This is by no means a popularity contest and I LOVE YOU ALL. (yanno, if you take these sorts of things to heart, the blatant COLD dismissal of your peers) KIDDING KIDDING!

I could have done this alphabetically or who is the sexiest or even who has perdy perdy colors on their blogs, but I went with eenie meenie miney moe. Because I'm democratic like that.

First up: Justine Dell. Like me, she's an aspiring writer. She's always been a sweet sweet SWEET lady (need I repeat?) and makes me smile all the time. Especially when my f*ups are just as bad as hers. There's camaraderie there, I tell ya. Always supportive and keeping me from downing the Southern Comfort, I'd like to thank her for keeping me sane. Okay, I can't even TYPE that with a straight face. She's at http://justine-dell.blogspot.com/

Next we have: Tiffany Neal. She's a Texan so automatically good people. Okay, that's not true. She's a teacher and the world needs more of those. Plus she's a writer, she's sweet, and can talk herself out of speeding tickets. That's the kind of person you want on your team. She's at http://tiffanyneal.blogspot.com/

Next down the catwalk is: Emily White. I read her blog, but I'm a crappy commenter. She's also a writer, is incredibly supportive, always informative, and hey, those neon flowers and butterflies in the background rock. Don't ever change them. She's at http://steppingintofantasy.blogspot.com/

Coming into sight now is: Shelley Sly. Also a writer (see a trend here?), Shelley always helps me smile when I start to freak out over something stupid. She sent me my very first award ever and helped me feel like I was part of the blogging community. Yes, folks. Just a few short weeks ago, I had no idea how this thing worked. She's at http://storiesintheordinary.blogspot.com/

Last but not least, especially since she was the first: Pauline Thomas. She was my first stalker. I mean follower. I'm a bad, bad person because I read her posts and smile then say NOTHING. What kind of monster am I??? She's charming and funny, and it's a shame she doesn't have more followers to see how special she is. Go there. I demand it. Then again, I demand a lot of things. She's at http://anallegedauthor.blogspot.com/

And Terry, I clicked on that website for the lovelink thing, but there's not a place for 'look at me, I did it!' so I'm leaving it off this post. I actually read the fine print. That doesn't happen every day people! *sits in smug pride*

Okay, I named my post that, but it has little to do with the greeting card day. I'm sure a lot of people are having romantic times with their loved ones, but today that's not me. It's cold and windy outside so I have no desire to go anywhere, even if we could agree on a restaurant. Instead, I am editing my story, which is a romantic pastime if you consider writing to be my first love. What better way to pass a day than to spend it with a manuscript?

Okay, I'm being facetious. I've made a lot of progress, though, and I'm feeling rather pleased with myself. First my story was over 150,000 words (OUCH) and I whittled away some subplot and made it 127,500 words. Then I edited it some more and got it down to 125,000 (give or take. okay, give) words and was feeling mighty proud. Now, thanks to frequenting a blog, I learned additional methods of editing so now I'm down to 123,000 words. Go me. I've shaved 27,000 words off my story.

Granted, I'm OCD, so no matter how many times I see 'a manuscript must be complete' I know I don't qualify for the simple reason that it won't ever be perfect enough for me. It's shiny and error-free (I'm fairly certain) and reads well, but I'm going to nitpick it every day. Even if I manage to get published, I'll still open the book and go 'man, I wish I could change that.'

Anyhoo, I hope you are all having a faboo day. Me, I'm gonna go find a blanket and bundle up.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

So, as a few of you know, I submitted my query to Query Shark. The experience has been invaluable and I love the suggestions (yes, even the manner they are given), but now I'm terrified that every agent that follows Janet's blog is going to see my query. Have they already judged it as something they don't want? As a fantasy writer, according to Query Tracker, there are only 107 agents that represent fantasy, so my options are more limited than other writers who write commercial fiction or romance or the like. It would be wonderful if Janet was interested in my story, but I don't expect it. She states on her Fineprint website what she represents and fantasy isn't one she prefers. I submitted my query in the hopes of having assistance (and it's been great) with writing my query, not to squeeze in a query for her to actually be interested in. It'd be wonderful if she likes it enough to send me in the direction of someone she knows that would be interested in it. I just worry I've shot myself in the foot and have already biased agents against my idea from them seeing my first query. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Have you ever deliberately said something rather stupid? Like, you thought it over for a long while, stewed over it, agonized over it, knowing it was stupid but you just HAD to say it? Yeah, I did that today. Doing my usual agent browsing on Query Tracker, I was sending off queries to agents who list 'fantasy' as one of their topics. Ho-hum, type type type, enter into Excel to track so I don't double send... "WHOA!!!!"

That's pretty much what my eyes and heart said when I look at 'Clients' on one agent and I see that he is Dean Koontz's agent. My idol. The god upon whom my worship falls. I've been reading him since before I hit puberty, and I even wrote a nine page letter to him once and he WROTE ME BACK. It was amazing. Anyway, I'm thinking to myself 'well, this agent is WAAAAAAAAAAAAY out of my league, but what the hell...' So, I look at the submission guidelines and they're DIFFERENT than everyone else's. It said 'Write a paragraph about yourself.'

I was stumped. Totally stumped. Stared at the flashing cursor for ages with no idea where to start. Inevitably, thoughts like 'well, he's not going to represent YOU, moron, so what's it hurt to be totally honest?' start to take root. Eventually the evil voices in my head win out(after a LOOOOOONG debate of about five minutes. Which is long for ME. I've got ADHD) and I write my dazzling paragraph. With frank honesty. Go me. That man is going to open that email (or most likely his assistant) and think 1. I was on crack, or 2. It was some ploy to get noticed. It wasn't, honest. I was just...certain of my query's fate so went for the gusto.

I won't share all the grisly details. I just know that I said things (no TMI) that were less than professional when it came to what they ACTUALLY wanted to know about me.

added note after the fact: He stopped representing Koontz five years ago. I feel like a total idiot now.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

So, I had thought in this day and age of political correctness sexist behavior was poor sportsmanship (sportspersonship?). I had thought that a person's sex should have no bearing on their credentials in most every aspect of opinions and voice (save for men speaking of breastfeeding or women discussing prostate exams) and all thoughts were created equal. Au, contraire. How wrong I have been. First I read from 'the respected sources' that people are not sure about books written by women with a male protag's voice. Okay, fine. Whatever floats your boat. Doesn't seem quite fair to me, but hey, what do I know? Then things start to slant even further as time goes by. One blogger I frequent has said 'someone mentioned...' twice now in his entries, and that person was me - a woman. Other times he mentions 'male person said' and gives a name. Again, I let that slide. I'm a pretty understanding lass. I guess the last straw came when I offered a suggestion on a site, got no response, then a male said the same thing I did below me, then several people go 'oh, yeah. I love manly man's advice.' ARGH. Am I just talking to myself???

I won an award. Go me. Now the painful part ensues: listing ten things about myself that are unusual or odd (which a limit of ten is so restricting, btw).

1. I played the Fairy Godmother in a play and had to sing 'Bibbity Bobbity Boo' in a scary yellow dress and smack 'mice' on the head with my wand. I was 11, so I greatly enjoyed beating on my classmates without getting in trouble.

2. My first and second cars were 70s Volkswagens in the 90s. I miss them so much. I now have an HHR.

3. I am possibly the only female who has not read, nor will ever read, any book about vampires in Oregon. My 13 year old tried to get me to. I made it to page 8. Every other female relation (mother and sisters) is in love with Edward. I know this makes me the freak.

4. I started writing novel length work by writing Harry Potter fanfic. Snape is hawt.

5. My first concert was Cinderella/Bon Jovi. I was 13. My last concert was Red/Seether/Breaking Benjamin/Three Days Grace. I have tickets for my favorite band, Blue October, in April. Maybe this isn't 'odd' but I prefer their albums from ten years ago, and that's sort of odd.

6. I've never read J.D. Salinger. This seems to be an issue lately with the recent passing of this literary idol.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Self doubt. We all have it, right? I want to have faith in my book, but there are so many writers out there that I'm competing against. I'm afraid of that narrow line between arrogance and confidence. I've never been particularly arrogant about myself, but when it comes to reading other people's ideas and writing...I feel myself being judgmental, and I hate that. And I know other people are judging my work and I want to know what they think...but I fear it, too. What if I just THINK I'm good? It's all a matter of opinion.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Do you ever get tickled by something, then there's no one around at that moment to share how funny it is?

Example: I was reading reviews for the book NEED on a site, and it had this one:

"If you asked Stephen King and Stephanie Myers to co-author a book, they would come up with NEED." -Justine Magazine

This amuses me for several reasons. Firstly, they spelled the second author's name wrong, as it should be 'Meyer' and secondly, which was truly the source of my infinite amusement, King would never work with Meyer. Okay, he didn't come out and say it, but he said enough for me to know that he thinks what I do - the writing is not that great. I won't say more in case I offend others who like the story.

Another amusing thing that I saw was a new writer at a blog I go to has a clear knock-off of a popular movie, and repeated attempts to get her to highlight the differences have failed. This in and of itself is not amusing (okay, maybe a little bit), but the transparent scheme to create a new account and address the blog owner who is an agent and tell them that the 'other' author has 'what looks like a best seller' and they should go look at it to tell her how to write it better. *Headdesk-but laughing. A lot.* My point is that I had NO ONE to IM, call, or otherwise harrass into seeing this fabulousness because none of my friends care about that sort of thing. *SIGH*

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

I've always been pretty sure what I thought was YA, but now I'm starting to think my novel is not that. The more I read about what teenagers expect from a book (as I always just read them and had my own expectations), the more I see that my book won't fill that need. I feel that there's plenty of kids that will like it, but it has a dark plot and doesn't end all puppies and rainbows. As much as I don't want to, I think I'm going to have to bump it up to just Fantasy instead of YA Fantasy, especially since (if the series gets to continue) my main character ages twenty years by the end of the story. My thinking at the time (which now is so amateur and idiotic) was that, as a teenager, I greatly enjoyed books like Dune and Mists of Avalon which were about young kids who eventually became adults and had children, so why wouldn't kids enjoy my book that will do the same? Geez, Christi, maybe because those books weren't YA. *slaps self on forehead*

Monday, February 1, 2010

Do you ever get that incredible sinking feeling? I've had it all day since I realized that the query I sent to ten potential agents was crap. C-R-A-P *capital period.* My story is pretty interesting, I think. I've got kids from 12-19 that love it, and adults from 30-55 years old that love it and wonder why on earth I am not published yet. No, I don't mean relatives and friends. The problem is clearly my shitty query letter that is boring. How do I know it's boring? Because I posted it on a forum board AND (gods help me) Query Shark, and the vote was unanimous: boring boring boring. Maybe I should feel at least a little special that Janet picked my query to review and didn't really rip me to shreds; just said I don't have any specifics which made it boring. So, on I plod, trying to formulate that shining, radiant query that will make an agent spit their coffee out and shriek "MATSUTAKE!" ....or something to that effect.

Four in the Morning

About Me

Free-lance Editor, Book Trailer Designer, and YA author. My first book, "Four in the Morning," is published through Immortal Ink Publishing and available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, and... other places :-)